The Survivors
by Guest-07
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts is won. Voldemort has been vanquished. The death toll is high but the toll of broken, lost souls is even higher. Hermione is one. After the death of Ron she has never quite gotten off the auto-pilot in her life. Will a one-night stand with a certain similarly suffering ginger head heal her wounds or rip away any semblance of healing?


A/N: The story takes place sometime after the battle of Hogwarts. Everything is exactly the same as the books except Ron is dead too. I've been out of touch with writing since forever, so please leave reviews and tell me what you think.

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CHAPTER ONE: ONE NIGHT STAND?

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The church bells tolled in the distance announcing the start of another day. Each bell sounded like a judgement of shame calling her out personally. Hermione curled herself tighter into the blanket, trying to cover her nakedness and trying to escape her shame.

Thoughts started racing frantically in her head.

 _He would be coming in any moment now._

 _Should she escape?_

 _Should she brush it off as a mistake?_

She _had_ been pretty drunk. This was _him_ though. Lying did not seem like a good option. Or an option at all. As screwed up as this was, he was family and she could not just cut him out because she made some really bad, drunk decisions. They had both been lost, lonely and desperate for understanding. And more than a little hungry for love. She closed her eyes and last night emerged, slowly but surely, out of the drunken veil…..

 **LAST NIGHT**

Weasley Wizarding Wheezes: Reopening soon.

The banner claimed obnoxiously.

Ginny had dragged her to the party, even though she was in no mood.

"Come on Hermione. It'll be fun." She shouted over the chorus of bazillions of Wheezes fans singing "Long live the Mischief."

"Ugh. Yeah fun."

Hermione replied monotonously. It was exactly the kind of scene she hated. Loud crowds, claustrophobic spaces, noise and just… happy people!

It was a pain to watch.

"Drinks?"

A perky blonde in a short skimpy dress with rabbit ears on her head shoved the tray under her nose.

"Um, No thank you."

She smiled sweetly and turned away, muttering under her breath "Figured."

Hermione look at her.

"What was that?"

She looked at her innocently.

"Uh, nothing. It's just you don't strike me as the party type."

It was true and she should've let it go but as the waitress started moving away she gritted her teeth.

Where did she come off making assumptions about her? She could party!

And as it was, she _was_ feeling rebellious and angry and pathetically out-of-control.

She was angry at Ron for leaving.

She was angry at Ginny for bringing her here.

And she wasn't about to be showed down by some pretty "I'm-Miss-20-Perfect-Boobs-And-Ass".

"So what do you need to be the party type, bunny ears or slutty dresses?"

It might have been her imagination but the waitress's smile had turned just a tad bit evil.

"Well, first off, you need a good strong drink."

She offered the tray, a challenge in her eyes.

Hermione picked up the largest, most dangerous looking drink.

Now if you've been to a party you know that the hurdle is the first drink. If you jump that hurdle, you just keep going on. Throwing up, feeling great, and going back for some more. And throwing up again.

Basically just what she was doing when he appeared by her side in the bathroom. And threw up in the sink.

The way he was lurching she could tell he was just as drunk as her. Or worse.

"'Mione?"

She just grinned stupidly and said "Hi."

If her sober self could've seen her drunk self at that moment, she would've died of embarrassment.

He grinned back and the grin was equally stupid.

"You're drunk!" He sounded amazed and maybe just a little impressed.

"Yes. I am. I am drunkty-trunkty drunkkk…"

"The bookworm is drunkkkk. The bookworm is druuunk…"

The music in the background turned to some slow mush.

"Hey." She yelled at his face. "Heyyyy! You wanna dance?"

"Dance?"

"Dance."

"Dance!"

"Dance!"

He reached towards her, stumbling. His hands went to her waist and she rested her hands on his shoulders.

His broad, lanky shoulders were exactly the same as Ron's.

He was so much like Ron in fact; he made her want to cry.

She rested her head on his shoulder, sighing.

And then, he stepped on her foot.

A tear leaked from her eye as I stepped back.

"Why you crying?" He looked confused.

"You're a bad dancer." She stomped on his foot, equally hard.

"Sorry" He mumbled.

"Ron was a bad dancer."

He grinned. "Yeah."

She took his face in her hands.

"You're so Ron?" It was a question and not a statement but he took it as such.

His face got scrunched in confusion.

"I'm Ron?"

Now she was confused.

"You're Ron?"

"I'm Ron." He declared.

"But-but Ron's dead."

"I'm dead? But I'm right here?"

"No..." I sigh, exasperated. "Ron's dead. And you are alive."

"Yes, I'm alive. Alive Ron."

"Alive Ron?"

"Yes, you just told me."

"I…told you…you were Ron?"

"Yes you said I'm Ron."

"No, I said…I am confused."

"You're confused. Why are you confused?"

"Because you say you are Ron, but you are not Ron, but I want you to be Ron because there is no Ron."

"I hate Ron." He mumbled.

"Why hate Ron?"

"Because he's a prat. And he made you sad. Hey that rhymes! See! See!

Ron's a prat

And he made you sad

And that makes me feel so baaaad. "

"Shut up."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm wearing a T-shirt." Saying that he starts to laugh hysterically as if he's made the best joke in the world. "Get it? Shirt up?"

She scrunched up her face. "You're annoying."

"Specialty."

"I miss Ron." She mumbled sadly

"Stupid Ron." He said, patting her back.

"But don't you miss him?"

He sighed grumpily.

"I miss Fred."

She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. By now they were sitting on the bathroom floor like two world class idiots.

He puts his arm around her.

They sit like that for a while.

"I miss Fred too, you know." She said quietly.

He stares at her face for a few seconds.

"You're beautiful."

He leans in and his lips brush lightly against her.

She jerked back, surprised.

"What-what are you doing?"

"I…I don't know."

"Oh." She sat there for a few seconds, dazed. He started to get up to leave, obviously uncomfortable.

She caught his hand.

"I…I think I like I don't know. Will you do it again?"

He sat back besides her and took her face in his hands. His lips were hesitant at first but it had been too long for her.

The desire to be wanted, to be needed flared up strong inside her and, with the intoxication of the alcohol, goaded her to take things further.

She clutched his hair, the same vibrant red as Ron's, and thrust herself into the kiss.

If she was sober, she would've been reeling at the enormity of what she was doing, but as it was, for now all she wanted was more.

Her hands went lower to pull off his shirt. He pulled back from her as it went flying over his head.

He had a wide eyed expression on his face.

"Mione, what are we doing?"

"I…I don't know."

"But-but I'm not Ron."

"Be my Ron. Temporary Ron." Her voice was desperate, needy.

"Temporary Ron." He sounded uncertain but lonely. It was the loneliness that won out in the end.

As he unravelled the dress off her, she felt nothing but bliss.

 **PRESENT DAY**

She didn't even remember getting to this bed from the bathroom floor. _That_ part she could definitely remember. The need and hunger clawing at both of them so badly that they fell to the bathroom floor itself. A heaping mess of flesh and sweat. Her heart started beating rapidly and the feeling of shame welled up again. She couldn't face him.

She wanted to disappear into her blanket as she heard footsteps coming up. As it was, she did huddle under the blankets till she heard a soft voice

"Mione?"

She crept out of the blanket slowly, afraid of facing him. Afraid of _The Talk_. Afraid that he might outright ask her if she had lost her mind last night. But when she looked at his face, she found none of the judgement she'd feared, none of the pity. It was him. Just him.

She exhaled.

"Hey George."

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